“Prisoners have rooms?”
“Prisoners have whatever I decide they have.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “The deal. You spoke up for me. Why?”
“You needed updates. It was reasonable.”
“That’s not why.”
I stop walking. She pauses beside me, chin lifting. Light from a window catches the sharp lines of her profile.
“Don’t assume you know me,” I say. “You read files. That’s not the same thing.”
“I know enough.” She doesn’t look away. “I know what you do for your family. I know the other families call you the Santoro ghost. I know grown men cross the street when they see you coming.” Her gaze drops to my pocket, where I’m grinding the fabric thin. “And I know you touched something in your pocket at least three times during that meeting. Every time the conversation got tense.” She looks back up. “What is it?”
I should lie. Should deflect. Should end this conversation, take her to her room, and walk away.
“None of your business.”
“You’re going to be working with me for the foreseeable future. We’re going to be in each other’s space. Maybe I should learn something real about you, beyond the body count.”
“You want to know something real.” My voice drops closer to a growl than I intended. “Here’s something real. I don’t trust you. I don’t like having you in this house. And if you betray us, I will kill you myself. Slowly.”
She should recoil. Should look away. Should show the same fear that everyone reveals when I make threats.
She doesn’t.
“You’re cute when you’re threatening someone.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Very serial-killer-chic. Do you practice in the mirror, or is it all natural talent?”
Cute. No one has ever called me cute. The word doesn’t belong in the same sentence as my name. Men twice her size flinch when I walk into a room, and this woman just called me cute while I’m promising to kill her.
“You expected a man,” she says, pivoting before I can respond. “When you kicked in my door. You were expecting someone different.”
The whiplash catches me off guard. “Yes.”
“Were you disappointed?”
Disappointed. That’s not the right word. Nothing about what I found in that apartment was what I expected.
“No.”
“No?” A spark in her expression. “Then what?”
“This is your room.”
I stop at a door halfway down the corridor. She studies it, then me.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Most questions go unanswered.”
“I’ve noticed.” She reaches for the door handle. Pauses. “Thank you. For the deal. For not killing me when you had the chance.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I step back, putting distance between us. “You’re in Santoro territory now. That means you play by Santoro rules.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we have a problem.”
